


In Your Honour

by abbyleaf101



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape, Drama, Hurt!Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyleaf101/pseuds/abbyleaf101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Richard (OMC) is a very important ally – his decisions could mean war or peace for Camelot. Unfortunately, he also has a devious fondness for dark haired, pale skinned servants. In his past visits, Lord Richard has never been prevented from taking whatever he wants in whatever way he wants; however, this time he has his eyes set on Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Honour

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this over four years ago and posted on LiveJournal - a couple of summers ago, I rewrote it, and this was the product. This version hasn't been posted anywhere due to a minor problem I had on LiveJournal that shook my confidence. Please be aware that this fanfiction deals with adult issues, and there is a fairly explicit description of physical abuse and implied sexual abuse and past rape. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and any thoughts would be incredibly welcome - especially on the two characters of my own, as it is my first attempt at crafting people entirely from stretch. 
> 
> Merlin and any recognisable characters do not belong to me - I'm only playing
> 
> Eternal thanks to my wonderful beta reader, oxymoronic

 

**In Your Honour**

 

The candlelight flickered over the stone walls of the Great Hall, throwing shadows into the dark corners where servants lurk, softening to red hue of the Camelot banners into late evening firelight; from the corner of the eye, the golden dragons appeared to lift their head and roar golden flames into the gathered crowd. Fine mead flowed from cup to cup, laughter rising up to the tall rafters as the night wore on, collecting there like cobwebs. Good food was being eaten and even the servants got to join in – stations blurred with drink, peace and good humour. The hall basked in it.  
In the darkest shadow of them all, however, there lurked a servant far from good cheer. His name was Merlin, and he was haunted by more then cold winter nights and the coolness of late evening against stone walls. Merlin was manservant to the Crown Prince Arthur, the Once and Future King, and there is a shadow that has nothing to do with flickering firelight in his eyes. All Merlin knew was that Arthur was in some sort of pain, could see it in every line of his face, along ever eyelash. And this time, this pain and trouble and discontent couldn’t me soothed away with magic; with a few well-chosen words. And the knowledge lodged itself deep inside, tugging at his chest and stomach.  
Merlin stood in a court full of nobles; stood and watched his Prince. He wondered how none of the assembled crowds could not see what he could so clearly – have they never seen their Prince before? He knows that, of all the noble, royal blood in this room, only Morgana saw it, too. The only one to notice there was something deeply wrong. She stared intently, with all the power a Seer’s gaze possesses – she watched his clear, calm expression; she watched him glide elegantly between the courtiers. And then her eyes darkened, going sharp and narrowing – honing in on the pleased smirk that teased at the King’s mouth. Her pretty face contorted with something dangerous and so terribly, terribly beautiful. Merlin felt the precise spike of her magic, growing in furious folds like a cape – engulfing her.  
Merlin stepped forward to serve her; sent his own magic out to remind her own. To draw it back down, to let it simmer just below the surface, tingle in her fingertips, along her skin. It held a silent promise; ‘I will ride it out with you. I will not let it destroy you.’  
He poured her drink. There past a silent, unspoken agreement; their fury at Uther for his pleasure in response to all that has changed in Arthur lately. Arthur was no less stubborn, or good, but he had tamed it – held it in his hands and modelled it until it reflected the perfect model prince; bent it like clay and set it in a furnace, the immaculate porcelain mask. And in this mask, Uther found everything he wanted; an exact clone, though he failed to recognise it was born of endless hatred. All Morgana and Merlin saw, however, where blank glass eyes, painted lips, hand-braided hair; one that got stronger and prettier and sharper with every passing day whilst the man become weaker, rougher, duller. It was harder to ruffle the perfectly laid feathers – as though there where non to ruffle; almost impossible to knock his Father’s acerbity from his head and from his heart; they where losing the Arthur they loved and loathed in equal measures, and despaired they where loosing him to his Father’s own blindness.  
Merlin now wore a cord around his neck. The Pendragon insignia emblazoned across a circular lead pendant. It came to rest right against his heart, where his magic weaved a spell deep into the metal; it was of the Old Religion, a tiny fragment of the centre from which all things originated, a tiny peace of the centre that forms the whole. Woven into it was the beginning and the end, and Merlin and Arthur. It brushed Morgana’s shoulder as he lent to serve her. She jerked and looked at him, eyes wild. He briefly wondered what she had seen – perhaps the end, or one of their endings, or perhaps a beginning. It didn’t matter.

Arthur was all that mattered.

 

Like all things made by man’s hand, it took time for Arthur mask to crack; time and abuse. Camelot was expecting visitors, an important noble from a barely allied land, come to discuss Camelot’s future with her ruler, face to face across a battlefield of maps and with weapons of words. The man was vindictive, and powerful. Powerful enough to make Camelot fall to her knees. His knowledge of both Mercia and Camelot was extensive, and he has a large number of men – vast armies that marched hard and fought harder; his alliance could mean war or peace. These two men where already allied, but only in the sense that they where not enemies and where waiting for the other to fall and have the best chance of taking advantage of the other’s loss.  
The welcoming feast and celebrations where the greatest Merlin had ever seen in Camelot, and he’d seen quite a few extensive, extravagant feasts; more food, drink and decorations where moved into Camelot the two moons prior to the Lord’s arrival then Merlin had seen in his entire life; he noticed 95% of them where Camelot red and gold. The Cooks where constantly kept busy, and in the week before the Lord’s due date, the castle was in constant movement. It felt as if every harvest since time’s beginning had come at once, along with every conceivable problem and draw-back, too. Most of the servants where working on little thought, and even Uther has taken pity on the tiny girls who stumbled in his presence beneath the weight of tapestries five times heavier and nine times more valuable then they where. Meanwhile, Arthur mask got tighter, more precise, slipping further on. It sealed in every blemish, spot and scar of personality. He still laughed and joked, bickered with Merlin and teased, poked fun as his ears and cheekbones and clumsiness, but there was something there missing. It was all an act, absent of the stumbles when he’s tired, well-hidden nervousness when he worries he’s gone too far this time.

And that, more then anything, exhausted Merlin.

 

The Lord’s name was Richard, and he was a vile man. He kept several servants about his person at all times; a blonde women, whose wrist he held with bruising force, impersonal despite the closeness; an older, weary soldier, whose dark eyes has lost their shine, their life. Merlin didn’t catch his name, but he doubted he even has one anymore. The worst by far, however, was a young man – dark haired and pale skinned, he sat at Lord Richard’s feet, knees tucked beneath him in subservience. Both hands where tied tightly together with red ribbon behind his back, pushing his chest outwards; his feet where also bound, pushing his thighs open; a long with this, the little clothing he wore was ripped and ragged, revealing enticing strips of skin, stains clinging to the material. The laces of his breeches where missing and they lay low on his hips - for easy access Merlin realised with a jolt. Merlin caught sight of bruises on the inside of his hips and along his chest and he turned his head away as revulsion rolled through him in a wave. Lord Richard suddenly seized the man’s chin and forced her head upwards; his eyes sent a shudder through Merlin’s frame, clearly visible, and Arthur made a gesture to bring him forwards – not quite touching, never touching, but close enough to offer comfort. Protection. As they watched, Lord Richard forced the man’s mouth open and poured wine down his throat; a pink drop rolled down his lips and the man darted out a flash of tongue to catch it. Richard struck him, tearing his lip, sending more crimson down his lips. The man’s smile never slipped. As Lord Richard sat back with a pleased smile, they saw that Uther’s mask had slipped, ever so slightly. He was cruel and unmerciful sometimes, but Uther was not cruel, and did not tolerate such treatment within his own court. However, Richard is not part of Uther’s court, and only the straining tendon on the hand with which Uther held his goblet gave away how displeased he was with the situation.

Morgana lent forward to speak to Arthur, eyes almost sparking gold around dark, stormy irises. Merlin, still close to Arthur, saw how Gwen was pressed tightly against her Lady’s side, fingers white where they grasped the arm of the chair, Morgana’s fingers pale against the skin of her maidservants as they circled the girl’s wrist.  
“Be careful,” she advised, flickering a look to where Lord Richard is talking to a disturbed Owain and an enraged Leon; the elder Knights body language exuded aggression and protectiveness. “He has a habit of asking Uther,” she continued, looking at Merlin briefly, “for a servant with which to spend the night.”  
Merlin looked at the young man crouched at Richard’s feet and shuddered again, so violently that both Morgana and Arthur shifted to comfort him with carefully disguised, concealed point of contact; the small of his back, his forearm. Arthur’s grip moved to his wrist and squeezed, letting go as though he’d been burnt when Merlin struggled against him.  
Morgana nodded solemnly, dark hair framing her face, body moving in an oddly masculine move to shield Gwen. “You know Thomas?” she asked, as Arthur and Merlin nod, “He had the honour,” she spat the name as though it burnt her mouth, “of being one of Richard’s choices. Uther was still Prince then, and he rescued the boy when others reported screaming.” Merlin paled, skin going a silvery translucent, and they feared for a moment he would faint. Arthur took his arm and manoeuvred him to where he could lean against his chair, should he need it. Morgana watched the hairline fracture of Arthur’s perfect mask with sharp eyes.  
Thomas was a small man, dark-haired and pale. He flitted from place to place, mostly invisible, eyes kept down and muscles tensed, curled in on himself as though ready to flee at any moment. Uther kept him as close as was physically possible, to the point of being almost literally tucked under his arm. Everyone in the room knew Uther could not afford to refuse Richard anyone – after all, this alliance was shaky at the best, and Richard knew it. All Uther could do was watch with the poison lead of guilt in his stomach and provide for those who came out the other side – if any did. Thomas stood beside Uther, and they all saw him move him closer to Arthur and Morgana; close enough to touch him but well within the comforting circle of their warmth and further from Richard’s calculating stare.  
Thankfully, Richard seemed content with the violent flinches he conjured in the other servants – for tonight at least. He stood and left, his personal servants trailing him. The young man who sat at his feet was yanked upright by a fine link chain that hung around his neck, stumbling to catch up as the blood from his split lip dried against the paleness of his chest. Camelot’s Knights, concern etched deeply onto their faces, spoke the remaining servants, strong and reassuring, offering escorts as the hall relaxed, sank into momentary relief. Gwen let out a shuddering sob and seemed to wobble where she stood, prompting Arthur to move and allow her to slide into his seat beside Morgana, heart clenching to see her so obviously disturbed. He glances over to his Father and saw that Thomas was trembling. His Father’s hand was as strong and reassuring as his voice where it lay in a warm spread across the servant’s back, and Arthur knew Thomas would stay with his Father tonight, as Gwen would with Morgana and Merlin with him.  
As he observed the slowly emptying room (several of the servant girls sobbing and being escorted by Knights), he noticed a small laundry girl who has been separated from the elder girls in the crowd. Together, he and Merlin moved towards her, movements perfectly timed like shadows. She fell against Merlin as they reached her, and he picked her up and rocked her, head presses against his shoulder as he held her tight. Arthur stared at Merlin, whose eyes where sad but alert. As she calmed and became too heavy for Merlin to hold, Arthur took her from him, carefully cradling her head in his larger hands. His mask has fallen somewhere, smashed into fine shards of pottery that lay at their feet. He listened to the fluttering heart he held in his hands – wondering how many hearts this one tiny collection of organs relied upon. Many young servants gravitated to Merlin – hanging onto his hands, wrapped in his long fingers, or clinging to his trousers and from his lower arms. They where shy of Arthur, but they smiled at him, soft and sleepy in the candles as they flickered lowly in their holders. One of the collected girls shifted sideways in her standing sleep and ended up resting against Arthur’s leg, red hair curling protectively around her freckled face. He shifted the laundry girl to one arm and rested a hand on her red head, smiling to himself in amazement as she lent into the touch. She woke and rubbed at her eyes, beaming sleepily at Arthur, all devotion and love, the way only the very young can manage. She slipped a tiny hand into his and he started but relaxed and smiled back, just Arthur.  
Gwen and Morgana watched and smiled – Arthur had led a distant life, and it was clear to see that he was surprised the children trusted him – amazed they would sleep against him and hold his hand. They thought that sometimes Arthur forget he’s more then just the crown, forgets that people love him because he is Arthur. They watch Arthur and Merlin shuffle out of the hall and wonder if this is what their future will be – quiet and content and loved in the peace of Arthur’s rule.

 

Arthur and Merlin walked the girl to where she lived, in the town nearest the courtyard. By now Arthur has the girls cradled against him, her head resting against his chest as she chatted. A servant walked with them, intent on returning to his own home before night set in completely. They walked slowly, contentedly, and all three of their heads where bent together, features softened in the moonlight. The servant walked along beside them, smiling. It wasn’t all that uncommon a sight, the two of them walking together so their shoulders and fingers brushed, master and servant long gone. He liked seeing them together – it felt right in a bone-deep way he couldn’t have described even if he had wanted to. Either way, he knew that anything that caused smiles that wide and laughter that true cannot be a bad thing, whatever form is comes in.  
They reached the girls house, and her little arms tightened around Arthur’s neck, snuggling closer in that devoted way little girls can always manage – as though she’d already decided this was her knew favourite place in the whole world. Arthur let out a delighted, fond laugh, tinged ever so slightly with wonder as it is, as though he rather felt the same. Merlin smiled and moved closer, smiling at them both as he passed a hand over her head, brushing her fringe out of her eyes.  
Her mother met them at the door, hair caught in a bun like Gwen’s, stray curls escaping the same way Gwen’s do when she’s been working, or Morgana has worked them loose so she can tangle her fingers in them. She has a round, kind face, but firm in a way that reminded Arthur or Hunith. Her hair, like her daughters, was curly and fiercely red. She thanked them with genuine warmth, praised them as though they where her own children, and Arthur smile edged into goofy, eyes crinkled at the corners and crooked teeth flashing. She reached in and hugged him with one arm, taking her daughter from him. Merlin thought Mother’s where attracted to Arthur like moths to a flame. The girl woke as she was moved, and she reached her arms to cling onto Arthur, in an attempt to tuck herself back into his side. Arthur’s cheeks went pink with pleasure as he carefully untangled her arms from him and watched her turn into her mother’s hold. She woke properly and hugged him goodbye, thanking him and kissing his cheek. Her mother chuckled fondly and carried her inside.  
As the door shut, Arthur stood on the doorstep for a moment, smile a little awed as he turned to gaze at Merlin. Merlin smiled lovingly back, happy in the starlight as he observed the Arthur he loved most, sleepy and soft in the knowledge that he is what his people need, at least in this moment. They had both just turned to leave when the girl’s mother reappeared at the door. She pressed a loaf of bread, still warm, into both of their hands, along with a small square of cloth, like a handkerchief. “I’m afraid it’s not much, but I wanted to thank you for your trouble. You didn’t have to do that.”  
Arthur practically ran back to his chambers, loaf and material clasped tight in his hands, and Merlin followed at a more sedate pace, smile fond and loving in the low candle light as he stopped by the kitchens for a knife and some left-over honey.

 

Lord Richard brought out every nervous habit in Camelot, from nail biting to rocking back and forward pulling out clumps of hair. The next morning, during Knights practice, the strain was especially obvious; smiles never reached the eyes of the men and laughter never sounded across the grounds.. They all greeted Merlin with the same ardour as they always did, but the tendons in their hands strained white and ticks developed in their foreheads. Merlin took his time with ever single one of them, helping them into their armour with fumbling fingers designed to sooth the tension from their shoulders. It was a common enough practice for the Knights to understand the fumbling wasn’t incompetence; it was rather a subtle system to affection, an unspoken reassurance for testing buckles and tightness of fastening. Merlin cared for each of them as he cared for Arthur – he understood each of them made up a piece of Arthur’s heart – and he was desperate not to loose them in training. Gwen once called him the Knights’ collective wife, all fussing and fawning and scolding when they take stupid, unnecessary risks. Merlin has gone roughly the same shade as Camelot banners and the Knights had laughed through Gwen’s embarrassed fumbling, throwing an arm around Merlin’s shoulders.  
On this particular morning, Lord Richard was watching the practice with his large hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes sharp and narrowed on the assembled Knights and servants. The dark haired man from before was still with Richard, attached to him as he was with a fine-link chain that the visiting Lord now used to jerk him closer and to his knees. As he watched, he spotted Merlin standing at the boundary of the training ground and trained his eyes on him, instead, pinning the boy in place with a keen stare. The man must have noticed and given some sort of sign of distress because the Knight’s reaction was immediate and telling in its unanimous and powerful solidity; a large proportion of Knights moved in their sparring pairs to disrupt Richard’s line of sight, never braking from their fighting, and the remaining Knights increased the fervour of their attacks, swords glinting in the sunlight and crashing together in a sharp echo of metal meeting metal. It was a warning, received loud and clear. It caught Arthur’s attention, and he moved to them too, splendid and refined in his gleaming Arthur, sunlight streaming through his golden hair in a halo.  
Morgana and Gwen, who where pretending to stitch and where instead making notes on sword technique, moved to take Leon and Arthur’s place either side of Merlin. The Knights moved back to their training, intent on impressing the ladies in the playful way they have instead of acting out their deepest desires to make Richard’s head their training dummy; danced around each other with flickering sword points, engaging in a slow dance with deadly intent, knowing the women picked up on the delicate flirting but not Richard.  
During the crashing of swords and the flashes of metal, the red-haired serving girl walked by, drawn by the sounds of play from so many elder people; she approached slowly, smiling already. Merlin gestured her over and she ran to them, hair tied up and little yellow dress fanning out behind her in the breeze. She clambered onto Merlin’s lap, resting against his chest as she watched the Knights. Merlin has left his scarf behind, and began to regret it under the calculating stare of Richard; could feel him tracking each inch of exposed skin with intent. The little girl on his lap reached up to freed his pendant from his shirt, winding the thin leather through her fingers and stroking the metal with a fingertip, tracing the Pendragon insignia. Merlin smiled at her, already knowing every dip and mound of the pendant. In the next few moments they learnt her name was Lucy and that her Father worked with leather, mostly for the harnesses for horses and the leather fastenings for all the armour the court makes use of. As Lucy bounced in Merlin’s lap, he smiled at Arthur, waving happily at him from his place on the bench. Arthur waved in return and ran a hand through his hair, wiping sweaty hair out of his face, prompting Lucy to wrinkle her nose slightly and giggle as strands got stuck up at right angles to his head. Arthur mock scowled and stuck his tongue out at her, causing both Lucy and Merlin to dissolve into a fit of giggles. The Knights hid smiles behind their swords.  
Arthur wandered over, pulling his gloves from his hands as he went. She jumped from Merlin’s lap and scrambled over to Arthur, planting herself quite firmly at his side, smiling back at the trio with a bright smile. Morgana smiled at her and patted her head. “You’re such a cute little girl.”  
Lucy glared, chest puffing outwards as she stamped a foot, “I am not little! And leather workers are not cute!” It reminded Morgana so much of a younger Arthur throwing a tantrum of much the same nature that she laughed, relating the story through the tears in her eyes to Gwen and Merlin, who also giggled themselves to tears, much the annoyance of Lucy and Arthur. Lucy looked up at Arthur with such a look of stubborn pride he had to laugh. “Of course your not,” he placated, resting a hand against the top of her head. Behind them, Owain made a noise like a strangled dog that was really a softly squealed “Aww!” badly covered by a laugh. Arthur pointedly ignored him even as the back of his neck went pink.  
Morgana shuffled over and allowed Lucy to sit beside her. “Mum and Dad are busy,” she said, swinging her legs. “You have very pretty hair,” she said suddenly, turning to Morgana and admiring the dark locks that fell over Morgana’s shoulders in neat ringlets. She stroked her fingers carefully through Morgana’s hair, winding the strands through her smaller digits. “It’s so soft and smooth,” Lucy said with a smile, “Mum says its so hard to look after mine because its all curly.” They smiled gently at them and laughed as Morgana’s expression became increasingly bemused, unused to dealing with small children’s enthusiasm.  
After a few minutes of sitting and chatting as the Knights continued to pretend to train and where really inventing knew and exciting ways to flirt with each other, Lucy’s Father came by and thanked them for amusing her. Morgana watched the proud look in Arthur’s eyes and knew it was worth having her hair a little tangled.

 

Later that night, during the evenings feast, Lord Richard kept everyone on edge; he chose servants at random to serve him; although they all escaped with only leers, it never the less increased the tension in the room, making people jittery and easily angered. Several of the Knights have drunk little and had still managed to loose their tempers – although never at the serving staff.  
Inevitably, Merlin was chosen to serve Lord Richard; he’d hyped it up, teasing it out and making comments even the King had been hard pressed not to react to. When Merlin was finally called forward, Richard waited until he was leaning over him, neck exposed and open, to murmur something in his ear; something that made Merlin pale to an alarming translucent degree, sickly see-through like a thin sheet over bone. He fled back to Arthur’s side when Uther finally took pity on him and dismissed him, drawing Richard into conversation about grain rotations. Merlin’s hands where trembling so badly Gwen had to serve Arthur, and the Prince nearly drew his sword against Richard right then and there. In a desperate attempt to give Merlin the comfort he could not in such a public setting, he sent Gwen off to retrieve Lucy from her dark corner; when she reached them, Merlin carefully folded long limbs around her frame and sank to the floor with her cradled carefully against his chest. Lucy settled in his lap, confused, but she wrapped her arms around his middle all the same, listening to the reassuring thump of Merlin’s heart.  
The night progresses as it would, the candlelight on the Camelot banners suddenly less comforting, dark corners threatening; the golden Camelot dragon stamped its feet and raged. Lucy had fallen asleep and she was propped against the side of Arthur’s chair as she slept, Morgana’s evening cloak draped carefully over her thin shoulders. One of her hands had fisted the expensive material, cheeks rosy from the warmth of a roaring fire and thick fabric. Despite his increasing anxiety, Merlin took care of her and served Arthur as best he could, and when Lucy’s Mother approached he passed her over without waking the red haired girl and Arthur passed the women a few coins. No-one could bring themselves to untangle her from Morgana’s cloak.  
Soon after, many of the younger servants, or those living too far from the castle to be safe this late at night, left. The remaining few felt the increased attention from Richard like a physical weight on their shoulders; restricting, bending their spines and crushing them beneath its weight. And with even less people to hold his attention, Lord Richard turned his attention more frequently to Merlin, who flinched whenever someone touched him.  
Even when that someone was Arthur.

 

Arthur knew that making Merlin stay in the room was a torture he could not inflict, and he could see the knowledge of what Richard has said was eating away at his mind; Arthur excused them both, stating that the rich food was churning his stomach. It wasn’t a total lie; his stomach was rolling, but it has nothing to do with the food.

 

They returned to Arthur’s chambers quickly, climbing through the darkened corridors towards the safety they offered; shadows assisting their silent movement with their dark, comforting shroud, guarding them. Once they had closed the door behind them Merlin’s shoulders relaxed, tension seeping out of his back and arms. He shuffled over to the fire, prodding and stoking it into a roaring flame until it lit every corner of the room, bathing the room in its warmth. Arthur sat in his chair and let Merlin work through the familiar, comforting gestures, watching carefully. The silence that descended over them was neither awkward nor uncomfortable. Once Merlin had finished with the fire, he turned and faced Arthur, back straight. Arthur stood opposite him, and a shadow passed over Merlin’s face like nightfall over the dales. Arthur stepped towards him, intent on assuring Merlin’s okay, that he’s still the Merlin he loves and needs; Merlin flinched and something clenched violently in his abdomen. He feared for a moment that he had lost their ritual, lost Merlin staying late into the night just to talk and laugh, sitting at a table like equals. But even as his stomach churned viciously, fury began to boil under his skin, alighting in his fingertips.  
“Tell me what he said.”  
There was a familiar glint in Arthur’s eyes, like flint off iron and like a Knight’s armour in the preparation for a fight to the death. In response, Merlin’s face contorted into its usual play of defiance and disobedience, but Arthur also saw a flicker of fear. Merlin’s eyes dropped from his. “Merlin, look at me.” Merlin went an ugly red, flushing in angry self-hate. Arthur’s stomach clenched tighter as guilt crawled into him like the creeping vines that clung to the castles walls and brought down battlements. It prompted the Prince to take another hesitant step forward and a sickly rush of relief flooded through him when Merlin didn’t step away this time.  
“He implied,” Merlin spoke to the floor between their feet, “that… this,” a vague gesture that encompasses the whole room, and the two of them, in general, “this is…”  
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “This is…?”  
“An attempt to… um, bed me.” Merlin’s eyebrows don’t seem to know what to do. He shuffled his feet awkwardly and Arthur’s stomach plummeted to somewhere near his knees. It was true that Arthur enjoyed Merlin’s company possibly more then was appropriate and part of their late-night talking was due to Arthur’s desire to simply spend more time with him, and at some point along the line he had half-planned to approach the other man about it (he’s seen him looking, he’s not entirely blind) but Arthur doesn’t think he can, not now. Merlin might take it as something he’s expected to do, as a service to Arthur to help him save face… no. He couldn’t.  
“Arthur.” Merlin was suddenly so close, scant inches separating them, head to foot. Arthur felt as though Merlin couldn’t have been further away even if they’d been in different kingdoms.  
“You don’t have to,” he swallowed painfully. “That is,” he continued halting, “That is, if you do not wish too…” he trailed off uneasily.  
Merlin smiled serenely at him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. Arthur’s muscled jumped under his hand. Merlin felt the tension there and the saw the hint of fear in those blue, blue eyes. Merlin leant into Arthur and pressed a chaste kiss to Arthur’s torn lips. Arthur kissed hesitantly back, a warm sweep of relief, joy and pleasure flowing through his torso chest and stomach.  
“You mustn’t let me…” Arthur began, pulling away from the kiss. “You’re more important to me then just…” Arthur cut himself off suddenly. He felt panic flash across his features momentarily and his face shut down, closing off. Arthur began to back away, stumbling over himself as he apologised. Merlin caught his hand and drew him closer, lacing their fingers together as he held Arthur close to him. He smiled at Arthur, wrapped his arms around his neck and snuggled into the space left under his chin.  
“Who said anything about `just’ anything?” Arthur slowly wrapped his arms around Merlin in return, relaxing into the warmth of Merlin’s embrace.

 

Lord Richard used the following few days to make his interest in the Prince’s manservant explicitly and unmistakably clear. The quiet statements he made to those around him where unmistakeable in their intent and implications, most of which where in regards to Merlin’s physical appearance. During the Knights training Richard also asked Merlin to assist him with putting on and taking off armour and fetching him food and drink. Mostly he flaunted how utterly helpless they where to prevent him from doing anything he wants to Merlin. The Knights became increasingly anxious because of this and as a result, took their frustrations out on each other, until they all crawled back to the castle with bruises on bruises and bleeding cuts; Arthur often bore the brunt of his Knights’ anger, finally aiding their desperation to protect Merlin.  
The one thing that became abundantly clear during the next few days was that Richard was, above all else, a man of the hunt. It was clear to see in his face that the constant push and pull was exciting him – Merlin’s stubbornness, the chase of getting what he wanted was only increasing his interest in claiming Merlin for his own – breaking that wilfulness and pride. It heightened the thrill of the inevitable prize, the way a stag is more satisfying after a long hunt that tests both stamina and perseverance. Naturally, Arthur knew how fun it was to make Merlin squirm, could picture every emotive response as easily as he could sword technique; this sort of anxiousness, however, tore at something in him, twisted his insides tightly in abject rebellion of how wrong it felt to see Merlin so unnerved. His skin crawled to see the frightened flightiness in Merlin, so much darker then the playful response his teasing usually gets.  
And the worst part of all was that Arthur could do nothing; he was Crown Prince and technically powerful, but utterly powerless in some ways, too, and he felt it now like a hurricane in his chest, like an acid eroding continuously at his brain. All his power, his influence, his control disappeared the moment that “the good of the country” overweighed the importance of an individual, an ever-burning battle between the desire to see Merlin safe and the guilt that the massacre of his people would bring. So as much as he longed to keep Merlin from Lord Richard, to deny him the wonderful, exquisite gift of Merlin’s company, he can’t; denying a Lord something that could strengthen a shaky, weak alliance that is desperately needed is something that’s just beyond his ability to do, especially when that something is a “mere servant”.  
Regardless of how much the “mere servant” was quite the opposite.

 

It took a week of increasingly jumpy behaviour from Arthur for Merlin to finally approach the other man. The Prince had gone from one extreme to the other, keeping Merlin as close of physically possible to sending him to obscure areas of the castle away from prying eyes. To save both his own and the other servants’ fraying nerves, he approached Arthur one night while they where getting ready for bed.  
They lay in bed together, curled together against the cold as the fire died down low, and Merlin laced their fingers together under the covers, smiling when Arthur jumped in surprise and tightened his grip around Merlin’s fingers. Occasionally Arthur still forgot that he was allowed to show physical affection and the enthusiasm he had for cuddling never failed to cheer him up. He turned until he was facing Arthur properly, easily able to look him in the eyes and hold his gaze. Merlin kissed Arthur gently, chuckling at Arthur’s soft murmur of pleasure as he pulled away and brushed the fringe from his Prince’s eyes.  
“What’s wrong?” Arthur whispered softly, cupping Merlin’s face in his hands.  
Merlin sighed softly and snuggled closer to Arthur, tucking his head beneath Arthur’s chin. “I have a meeting. Tomorrow. With Lord Richard.” Arthur suppressed a shudder.  
“I can fabricate a monster again. Take you with me. Or hire an assassin to kill him.” The tone of Arthur’s voice was wistful.  
Merlin attempted a smile. “You know as well as I do that you can’t do that.” Merlin nuzzled even further into the protection of Arthur’s chest and neck. They where both thinking about what they had learnt this morning from the elderly maids – it was at a meal like the one planned for later tonight that Richard finally took Thomas as his own.  
“It’s okay,” Merlin said, as Arthur tightened his arms around Merlin. “It’s okay.”

 

The following day dawned bright and cold, the sun rising early to bathe the earth with his silvery tendrils of light. Arthur had not slept during the night, spending the time merely watching Merlin sleep, cocooned in the safety of his bed, chest rising and falling softly, face lax. During those post-twilight hours, a fierce protectiveness had arisen in his chest.  
They walked through the castle, close together, Merlin quite obviously wrapped in the protection offered by royal favour. The Knights where with them almost before anyone else could lay eyes on them, adding to the protective ring around them, holding them tight; moving through the crowds of people with dangerous smiles and deadly formation. Leon wrapped a supporting arm around Merlin’s shoulders. Carefully they allowed Morgana and Gwen into their circle, closing around them again without a single break; a solid wall that Richard could not break but who moved easily with the rest of the castle – moving to allow friends through with nary a ripple that would allow Richard a closer look. Morgana embraced Merlin, and he let out a shuddering sigh, trying to hide his face and his magic in her warm, reassuring arms. Merlin pulled away from the fierce force of Morgana’s magic and rubbed at his eyes, only to find himself crushed against Arthur’s chest, a hand against the small of his back and the other in his dark hair.  
Slowly, Morgana and Gwen found themselves shuffled out of the ring of Knights, and all they saw was a flash of gold and a shock of black as Arthur kissed Merlin amongst the glint of the Knight’s armour. Gwen leant heavily against her mistress and they watched the solemn procession with heavy hearts. Morgana’s magic prickled restlessly over her skin, curling around both women like a blanket against the cold.  
Even Uther’s face softened in regret when he saw them. Thomas stood beside Arthur and slowly they managed to coax a smile onto the older servant’s face, one that lightened his eyes softly and calmed his flinches. Arthur looked at his Father and felt an odd rush of thanks; this was his Father’s subtle way of promising that things will, if not be alright, at least get better; that Merlin will keep the court’s support and protection; that he could begin to recover in time. The longer they stood, the more Thomas seemed to like Merlin; Merlin whose overwhelming need to protect dulled the terror of the coming evening. His instinct for helping other people shone in this instance, especially in its ability to draw out a laugh. They where bonding over their shared experience of serving stroppy Pendragon males. Arthur smirked and picked Merlin up, tickling Merlin until he cried from laughter.

Richard watched with dark eyes and formulated a plan to take what he wanted from the man who already had it.

 

That evening, Merlin was escorted to his meal with Lord Richard by Arthur; if the tight, desperate grip the Prince kept on his manservant was noticed by anyone, no-one said anything. Lucy went with them, forehead drawn down in a frown, her tiny hand held in Arthur’s larger one, offering her comfort, and he loved her for it, loved her for having the courage to see his weakness and offer her support rather then her disappointment in him.  
A few feet from the door to the eating hall, they drew to a halt. Arthur and Merlin stood looking at each other, before the Prince pulled Merlin into a small alcove away from the prying eyes of the castle’s gossips. Lucy stood guard outside of their tiny silver of peace. In the alcove, Arthur pulled Merlin into a fierce embrace, burying one hand in the other man’s dark hair, the other arm wrapped tight around his waist. Arthur felt the fine tremble in Merlin’s limbs and tightened his hold, pulling him ever more firmly against him, nuzzling into the corner of Merlin’s neck and chest. Smiling softly, Merlin leant back and took Arthur’s face gently in his hands, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and then his face; cheeks, forehead, eyelids. Then he took both of Arthur’s hands, kissing the backs of each and then his palms, finishing with a tender kiss to the tip of each finger; in the darkness, it felt like nothing could ever touch them.  
“It’s not your fault,” Merlin whispered into his ear. When they left their silver of peace, their hands where clasped tightly, fingers woven together. Lucy smiled at them, brightly, little body held straight and strong, resilient even in the face of the oncoming storm. Merlin pulled his hand from Arthur’s gently and sank to his knees, drawing Lucy to him and brushing fingers through her hair. She held onto him as he shook and whimpered gently, red hair taught in Merlin’s fingers and falling down her back; so much strength in such a small person.  
“Look after him for me, yeah?” Merlin asked her hair, eyes on the floor.  
“Promise,” she replied softly.

They knew Richard was arriving after them, the hunter in the chase, the cat leisurely playing with the mouse that knew he had the catch cornered. Morgana and Gwen rounded the corner, a few minutes before Lord Richard was due to arrive, Morgana’s long skirt flaring out behind her as she walked, terribly beautiful; a goddess of destruction. Merlin could feel her magic, restless and agitated, darting around her, testing the air and retreating; coils where twisting possessively around Gwen, holding tightly to her, and they where calmer then the rest of her, soft ripples as the Seer’s power recognised the other women as its other half. One of the reaching tendrils sought for Merlin, and then Morgana herself was there, porcelain white and perfect, lips red smudges against her face; her eyes shone like bloodied jewels, tears trembling in her eyelashes, fearing the fall. Merlin smiled at her, his own magic meeting hers as a solid wall, abnormally still. Their eyes met and she understood, suddenly – he was protecting himself, and Arthur. As much as Arthur did not have magic, he is of magic, as everyone is; he was made from the same centre Merlin and his magic was, and because of this, some deep instinctual part of him reacted to Merlin’s magic, and the calm wall hid the full force of distressed, attacked magic so that Arthur would not feel it in the dark, vulnerable places inside. Gwen smiled softly at Arthur and dropped a quick curtsey before pressing a fleeting kiss to Arthur’s cheek, giggling at the faint pink flush on his cheeks.  
They heard footsteps in the corridor, and Lord Richard rounded the corner; Arthur drew Lucy behind him, and Gwen jumped and stood closer to Morgana, shrinking into her Mistress’ offered protection. Lord Richard smirked, an ugly blemish that marred what would have been a handsome face, one that transformed into a scowl when he noticed Morgana. She was off-limits; her astounding beautiful hid a darkly dangerous heart and intellect, and Richard could taste the venomous undertones to it that kept her out of his grasp. He was without his chained slave for the first time during his stay, and Arthur shuddered, assaulted by images of him Merlin chained and bound at Richard’s feet.  
Turned from Morgana and towards Merlin, his smirk returned when Merlin flinched slightly under his gaze, and it grew when Arthur stiffened beside Merlin, jaw clenching and hands balling into fists. The Lord, quick as a viper, fisted his hand in Merlin’s scarf and ripped it from his neck, revealing a pale expanse of skin and a thin, leather cord. With a cruel twist of his lips he twined the cord around his fingers and grasped it, pulling it from his neck. Merlin cried out, harshly, like a banshee’s call, as he felt the magic in the pendant ripped from his chest, his soul. Arthur tensed further, making an aborted step towards Merlin. Richard released a delighted laugh at Morgana’s roar of rage. As the pendant fell, Lucy darted forwards and caught it between her hands, cradling it gently between her fingertips. Morgana stepped forward and wrapped herself around the trembling form of the younger girl, holding her close.  
“Come along, Merlin,” Richard said, sickly sweet.

 

Dinner was less dinner and more a systematic form of torture; the rich foods turned Merlin’s already anxious stomach, and the soft wine was obviously spiked with something heavier, something cruder – a strong alcohol of rum or a similar sort of drink that leaves the drinker senseless and powerless. Merlin didn’t touch a thing, and rose to none of Richard’s taunts and tried his hardest not to allow Richard to see his nerves or allow himself to squirm under hid calculating stares. When it became obvious that Merlin would not struggle or beg or respond to him physically or verbally, he became very, very angry; the sort of uncontrollable rage that broke minds and garnered madness. Within moments Richard’s broad, coarse hands where around Merlin’s throat, leaving vivid purple marks on the delicate, pale skin there. Using his grip Richard pinned him to the back of his chair, his face close; breath rank with alcohol, teeth stained with it. It was with Merlin pinned under him that he saw the mark – Arthur’s, one the other man left a few nights ago in the quiet of Arthur’s chambers, hidden in the crook between neck and shoulder. Richard stared at the mark, and anger bloomed suddenly in his eyes; harsh and unforgiving. Richard took a knife from his belt, pressing the shining edge to the fragile pulse point in the manservant’s neck. Slowly, precisely, Richard pressed the knife forward to nick the skin, a bead of ruby blood sliding down the pale expanse of neck and over jutting collarbones. Richard followed the path of blood with his eyes, licking it off as it falls off his collarbone, sucking a deep purple bruise into his skin.

“Let’s see what the Prince thinks of his prize now,” Richard drawled, eyes suddenly dark with arousal. “The real feast will begin soon.”

 

A few hours earlier, as the meal has begun and the doors had closed with a damning thud behind Merlin and Lord Richard, Morgana and Gwen has taken Arthur by the shoulders and steered him forcibly down to the training area with the other Knights; taking his mind carefully from what’s going on behind those heavy oak doors. With arms sure on his shoulders they led him down to vent, to loose himself in the therapeutic repetition of drills, surrounded by people who understood the agonising anxiety.  
Several hours later, tired and bone sore, Arthur made his way towards his chambers, exhausted beyond the physical trials of training with Knights. He suddenly wished fervently for Merlin to be there, chatting through the painful journey back to their rooms, to rub the stiffness from Arthur’s bones with care until he was relaxed, warm and sleepy, lounging in Merlin’s easy company. Instead, all that would be there to greet him was an empty room and cold sheets, some miscellaneous, unseen servant scrubbing his back and leaving him food. He remembered it from before Merlin arrived, the shock of the lonely isolation like a physical blow that hit him square in the chest.  
When he reached his rooms he paused outside, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end; something felt wrong. When he finally reached out and opened the door, the scene he was confronted with caused bile to rise in his throat, bitter and acidic, his stomach heaving. He took in Lord Richard, lounging in Arthur’s chair, boots off and lying neatly by the fire, breeches casually unlaced and riding low on his hips. Arthur’s eyes took in the rest of his room, and he gagged, breathing deeply to stave of the heaving; Merlin was tied to his right bedpost, back against the wood, front facing Richard in the chair, completely naked. Merlin’s breeches where held in Richard’s hands, torn to fine strips; Arthur saw cuts littering Merlin’s hips and thighs, deep little slices where Richard had used a knife to cut away the material. Strips of Merlin’s shirt still stuck to his torso, caught in congealed blood and cuts, bruises drawing a terrible picture across the pale canvas of the dark haired man’s skin. His hands where bound above his head, high up near the top of the bed posts, body stretched taunt and vulnerable; the force of the scene almost drove Arthur to his knees, gut twisting with something dark and sick.  
Slowly, Arthur walked towards the bed, eyes on Merlin the entire time, expression open and unguarded, hands fisted tightly. When Richard didn’t receive even a glance he growled in anger and annoyance, before his smirk returned to its home on Richard’s face. “What’s wrong?” Richard drawled, mock sweetly. “Disgusted with your slut of a servant? He’s such a good boy, though.” Richard’s voice held a parody of fondness in its tone. Arthur’s shoulders tensed and his back straightened but he made not a sound as he continued his slow walk towards the bed and Merlin.  
Once he reached him, Arthur touched Merlin gently, flinching violently when Merlin released a painful whimper, shying away from the contact. Merlin’s eyes flickered open, dark and expressionless.  
“Arthur?” came the soft whisper, the slight tilt of Merlin’s head in Arthur’s direction, before panic set in, distorting Merlin’s features as he began to struggle, murmuring hysterical apologise and fighting for release; binds digging further into the delicate skin of his wrists causing veins of ruby red blood to soak the silk that held him and trickle down his arms. Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat as he reached out a hand to still Merlin’s struggling, fighting down a desperate sob when Merlin flinched away again, his struggles increasing. Arthur could see the wood of his bedpost cutting viciously into Merlin’s back and every inch of him longed to reach out and touch Merlin again, to take him into his arms and hold him close; but he hated the thoughts of causing him more pain and distress, hated the thought of adding to the torture Merlin was suffering already at the hands of the man lounging comfortably in the chair behind them.  
“What is it, my little Prince?” Richard asked again, closer this time. “Come now, tell me, my dear one,” he crooned, crowding Arthur closer to the bed and Merlin, making him confront the devastation of all he held dear to him. When Arthur still wouldn’t reply, Richard took hold of Merlin’s neck with a rough grip, tilting the man’s head back. “Answer me,” Richard said, the sickly sweet drawl missing from his voice now. Arthur remained resilient, back straight and head held high. Richard’s eyes burnt with a twisted pleasure, fingers tightening around Merlin’s neck. “You’re choice,” he whispered, and, dropping his hand from Merlin’s neck, he reached up and released his wrists before retying them lower down, before snapped Merlin’s wrists, chuckling darkly at the scream of pain that ripped from Merlin’s ravaged throat. Richard continued to flick his own wrists, Merlin’s howls increasing with savage ferocity as every jerk sent angry sparks of pain through Merlin’s entire arm until he was sobbing and crying savagely; each sound tore a hole in Arthur’s chest, a gaping wound of sorrow that soon boiled into a furious anger, vile and roiling.  
When Richard continued to smirk victoriously, and Merlin’s whimpers of pain turned into quiet sobs, punctuated by murmurs of Arthur’s name, wrist hanging limply, Arthur began to shake, and he bowed his head; fingers twitching against the legs of his trousers. Seconds later, before Richard had time to process that anything had changed, Arthur had a blade pressed to the Lord’s neck, eyes dangerously dark and calm; Arthur held another against the spaces between Richard’s ribs. The laughter died quickly in Richard’s throat, eyes widening as the pressure of the blade against his throat tightened with a painful mewl from Merlin. Quickly, however, Richard recovered his composure, and hatred tinged with patronising disdain coloured the man’s eyes.  
“Now, now, little Prince, Daddy won’t like this,” Richard drawled, apparently unconcerned by the two knives pressed to his skin.  
Arthur’s face twisted with revulsion. “’Daddy’ doesn’t like you. You are vile and repulsive, you have no wife and no loyalty amongst your people – you rule through pain and fear. You are a bully, and you harass those weaker or younger then you, those who you should protect. I pity you; you’re weak and pathetic.” He shoved him away, towards the door, the edge of the blade that was pressed against Richard’s neck coming away stained with beads of blood. Arthur turned his back on the Lord and went over to Merlin, carefully untying the bounds around his wrists, cradling the broken one in his own hands, roughly supporting it with a board and a ripped strip of cloth from Arthur’s shirt, resolutely ignoring the whimpers and flinches coming from the pale form of his manservant. It was a bad break, and there was the fear that Merlin would never truly regain the full strength in the joint. As Arthur inspected the area to survey the damage, Merlin released a tiny whine that ran along Arthur’s spine like iced water.  
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered, gentle, and gave Merlin his long night shirt, pulling it over his head and helping him into it, hiding him. The fiery anger towards Richard still simmered below the surface, but the passionate need to act redirected itself, for the moment, into protecting Merlin. He was painfully aware of the effect physical contact could have on Merlin, and he kept himself at a distance, hands held back despite his desire to gather Merlin into a hug and hold him close.  
“Not your fault,” Merlin whispered hoarsely, briefly touching his unbroken hand to Arthur’s upper arm, smiling faintly. Arthur’s heart swelled with the knowledge that despite the discomfort of even such a fleeting touch, Merlin put Arthur first, like always, ignoring the pain to reassure him. Arthur sighed and smiled faintly back, squashing the queasy heaviness of the guilt that hung in his stomach and chest.  
Richard’s eyes where wide with disbelief, unable to comprehend how Arthur wasn’t disgusted with the other man, how Merlin could bear to face Arthur after everything that had happened in the last few hours, how he wasn’t broken beyond repair. The Lord continued staring at the two of them, even as Arthur’s Knights burst into the room, swords raised, Morgana just behind them; magic screaming angrily around her in a dark cloud of power, tearing into everything. Before she reached Merlin, however, there was a wall of solid Knights between her and the bed, a clear protective shield that even her magic could not permeate. Leon turned to her, pale and sick. “I’m sorry, my Lady, but he will not value crowding.” Several Knights closed around Arthur and Merlin, and Morgana was lost in the wash of people as Richard was bodily dragged from the room, hands and swords rough.

Despite Uther being unable to take formal action against Richard’s behaviour, there where subtler ways in which the castle expressed its irritation towards Richard; firstly, Uther removed Merlin from Richard’s path as he was now unfit to work, courtesy of the broken wrist and the various cuts and abrasions due to the trauma the Lord subjected him to. The Knights especially conveyed their resentment when Richard finally joined them for daily Knights practice, when they used him as the model for every knew move and technique until Richard left the training field blooded and bettered, limping heavily and bruised from head to foot. Morgana and Gwen regularly attended these training sessions and barely concealed their glee behind their hands and flirting with the Knights, and it was seem to that those who have the Lord the hardest time often walked away with the Prince’s favour, in money or in treats like food or a day off patrolling.  
During the remaining days of Richard’s stay, Arthur spent his entire day in Merlin’s company, although the time they spent in Arthur’s chambers became increasingly strained and nervous; the Prince seemed skittish and anxious, especially around his chair and the bed, the right post of his bed. It tore at Merlin, increasing the guilt he already felt, for disturbing the calm comfortableness they felt, until both Arthur and Merlin where self conscious around each other, shying away and increasingly the distance between them grew. Physical contact between them had greatly reduced, and as a result, Merlin has quickly learnt that when touch was initiated, Arthur stopped and paid attention to him immediately, and that, regardless of how fleeting or light the touch, Arthur would notice.  
One evening, once Arthur’s duties for the day where done and they had both retired to his rooms, and the Prince had sat on the left side of his bed carefully, head in his hands as Merlin cleaned the rooms as best he could with a broken wrist, Merlin knew he had to say something.  
“Arthur.” Merlin rested his fingers against the blond strands of his hair, keeping them there when the Prince raised his head to meet the other man’s eyes. “Arthur. Look. Calm down, please. It’s fine. I’m fine. Please.” Arthur continued to twist his fingers together, and Merlin sat down heavily beside him, resting a hand over both of the Prince’s. “I admit, I’m not completely okay. But the happiness and security of this room far outweighs anything he did to me here. You outweigh all that he did just by being here.”  
Arthur continued to look unconvinced. Merlin crouched down before Arthur. “He wanted this to tear us apart. Please don’t let it change us more then it already has.” Arthur sighed heavily and nodded slightly, rubbing at his temples. Merlin smiled and wrapped his one working arm around Arthur, resting his head against his chest. Arthur rested his chin on Merlin’s head, arms loosely encircling the thinner frame of the other man, holding him close against his chest. It felt indescribable to hold the man he loved so much after everything that had happened in the last few days, and what could have been.  
Despite her approval over their treatment of Richard, Morgana sometimes had difficulty accepting that the Knights protected Merlin from her, too. She was still around, and they never went out of their ways to keep her from him, but she was aware of a new distance between them, a barrier that wasn’t there before, that both the Knights, including Arthur, where keen to keep. Merlin could sense the fury in her magic, the wrath that swirled around her like a shroud; felt the potent potential of the power that drove her magic and instinctively shied away from it and therefore her. It reminded him a little of the angry darkness of Richard, enough that it made him agitated.

 

People will tell you that, before the Purge, there was a school of thought that believed that every person had a light, that every single soul, magical or otherwise, had a colour and a strength that was individual, that there were never two the same; a light that marked the person. They also believed that loving, in any sense of the word, was the most powerful form of magic one could do, something that changed the make up of two people’s magic, and was therefore the most powerful thing any person could do, even more so then killing a man.  
Arthur’s magic, Arthur’s light, was good and honest, the type that very rarely occurred; it was pure, and any darkness was shattered by the sheer intensity of the love and honour that ran through the centre. It was a light that led; not just that Arthur could command an army, or rule a country, but that people where drawn to him as their leader in such a way that they almost ruled together. Even his anger was the need to do what is right, to find justice, to protect those he loves and those he serves; it would be impossible to bear was it not for the occasional shadow that drifted across the light, insecurities and secrets that gave it its power. Merlin magic clung to the golden light, safe and secure. Protected. It rescued Merlin from the darkness of Richard’s soul; waded right into the middle of all that corruption and walked away untainted.  
Merlin, himself, had a good light, like Arthur; burning golden and bright. But there was a difference, fundamentally. Since Richard, it had changed, slightly, as the light does when things happen in a person’s life, another flicker and streak of purple in the fire. But beyond that, more that, Merlin’s had a supporting light, softer and gentler that soothed and reassured; Merlin’s light added depth to Arthur’s, strengthened it at the base. The same as with Arthur, the blemished of his light made him human, made him capable of loving.  
Ultimately, after the Purge these things where forgotten or discarded along with everything magical; no-one recalled them and those that did had long since learnt to ignore them or where else hiding in a corner of the kingdom that had passed out of living memory, like the knowledge they guarded. So their light remained hidden except for in Merlin’s eyes when he preformed magic, in Arthur’s hair as the sun splintered through it. They where nothing more then fairytales; but the kingdom of Camelot shone under these guiding lights; forever.

 

Lord Richard returned to his own kingdom broken and beaten beyond recognition; he had broken his right arm during a particularly heavy practice and the limb was bent a little where Gaius had settled it wrong the first time, mimicking the permanent damage dealt to Merlin’s wrist. His left eye was black and swollen and the long, shallow sword nick down his cheek and across his lips distorted his face until it bore the evidence of the Knight’s frustration. When the Lord finally confronted his council his injuries gave a message that was impossible to miss and soon spread with deadly speed;

“Camelot will protect that which she loves.”

 

With Richard gone, the city relaxed and the stars seemed to shine more fiercely, glittering amongst the silky darkness of the evening sky, laying their glitter over Camelot, keeping their watchful vigil. The people smiled more often and the children came out to play, laughing in the streets as they danced amongst the stalls of the market and the entire kingdom clung to her Prince as she never had before.  
In the end, Lord Richard has almost done the Prince a favour; he didn’t succeed in taking Merlin from him and in the process of trying he actually gave Merlin to Arthur and gave them their happiness. The Lord showed Arthur what he was allowed to have; the warmth of their companionship and the comfort of their relationship. He made him realise he was allowed to feel the way he did, and what was more, that he was allowed to have what it promised; allowed him to hold Merlin close as he does now. They’re closer even when castles apart and Merlin clings close by Arthur and now, as he hadn’t before, Arthur clings back; a protective fire burning in his eyes and love burning deep in his chest the likes of which the kingdom hasn’t seen for two decades.  
The mask Richard had shattered upon the floor never returned, the carefully manicured veneer slipping away into the folds of a bad dream. The emotion Arthur showed now, the genuine concern, anger and love, his open affection for Merlin, all showed the people of Camelot the kind of King and man their Prince was slowly transforming into. With every day that passed, Uther lost his Kingdom to his own son; to the Prince he had raise and the King Arthur had made of himself. In everything but name Arthur ruled Camelot and she rejoiced.

 

Lucy woke up one day: got up; got dressed; ate; went out. Her hair was still curly and brilliant fiery red, long down her back but tied up into a loose bun, strands framing her face as they escaped. She was older now, taller, hands a little more worn, not so small now. She had a little one of her own now, same bright red hair, same curls tight against his skull, eyes bright and freckles across his noses; he dreamt of being a Knight in Arthur’s court, brilliant and radiant in the sun. Lucy was different; she still saw what so many had blinded themselves to in the days of the Purge. She saw the light in everyone, the tiny glowing strands that connected everyone and everything, could feel it deep in her bones. She could smell it in the air, taste it in the wind, could feel it in the trembling of the earth during spring; the silent dormant winter soil; the steady bump of summer sun; the shivering urgency of the autumn leaves. She could see it all in the magic of the world.  
She felt Morgana begin to drift, the edges of her magic, always so boiling and expressive blur around the edges, drawing away from them into an unrecognisable pattern that sent dark shivers down her spine as Lucy felt the Lady’s questing magic meet something much older then they where; two sides of the same coin. She felt the anxious tightening of Merlin’s magic in response, how it aged and turned wise before his years; she felt it mourn hers, weep for Morgana’s companionship, and the warm curls of her magic around his. Through all the years, she felt the cautious but firm coil of the King’s soul around Merlin’s, the tightening of the bonds with every day that passed, for the reign of King Arthur had begun, like sunlight emerging from behind the clouds after long hours of storm.

Lucy had never learnt not to feel the magic in her, and she shone with it; life and love and Arthur and Merlin and destiny.

 

The wind would blow through the trees, and the stars would glitter in the sky, and so the Once and Future King would rise again.


End file.
